Mother, Mother
Not even Marvin could sing your worth
No poetic flourish, no Wordsworth
No prose could be so perfect
No writer so competent
No painter so skilled
Why am I still writing?
The arms of a mother
Irreplaceable by the charms of another
No Shakespeare could create a fitting ode
To depict that heavenly abode
Resting beneath your exhausted feet
That earn you a warrior’s reward
For a warrior’s resolve
Pray I feed you one day like I was once fed
And keep me in your prayers
So I walk untouched through the forest of naysayers
Pray I never break away from the warm clasp of your hand
Meditation, the deepest contemplation, I will never understand...
Your worth.
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